


These are the words I never said (this is the fear)

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The anklet goes, Neal stays.  The first six months after are an emotional roller coaster for both Neal and for Peter.  Thank goodness for Elizabeth’s common sense and emotional integrity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These are the words I never said (this is the fear)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sonia6349](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sonia6349).



> Written for the lovely and generous Sonia6349 for her bid for the Queensland Flood Relief auction. She wanted virgin!Peter’s first time with Neal, and bonus points for a healthy serving of frotting. I loved the idea and got a little carried away.

**Six Months Ago – A Monday, Around Lunchtime**

 _“YEAH, THAT’S IT. DON’T STOP, PLEASE DON’T STOP.” The mouth on his cock is hot and wet and skilled beyond belief. But even if it isn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing that counts in this perfect moment is that Peter is sucking him, it is his lips and his tongue and his teeth teasing him, his fingers pressing into that smooth secret spot, his bright eyes looking up at him. This is everything Neal has wanted and dreamed of for years, and finally, finally it is happening._

 _The thought makes his whole body clench and twist and ache with desire, a reaction that has nothing to do with the sensation of the blow job and everything to do with ..._

“Neal, Neal!”

Someone - Diana - is calling his name - and he almost falls off his chair as reality snaps back into place.

“Want to join us for lunch?” Diana and Jones, with two of the newer probies arrayed behind them, are looking at him kind of strangely. Neal supposes that spacing out in the middle of the day is odd behavior, even for him.

“Where are you going?”

“Thought we’d try the new Cambodian place on Water Street.” Clinton answered for the group.

“The one that was the new Vietnamese place six months ago?”

“Yeah, and it was the new sushi place before that. I’m thinking that six months from now, it will go back to being the pizza joint it was when I started here.”

They laugh, and Neal gets up and retrieves his hat, with every intention of joining the group. As they are about to walk out, Peter comes bounding down the stairs - all restless energy and enthusiasm.

“Neal - lunch. Now.”

Diana and Jones grin and the probies look completely puzzled as Peter tugs Neal away from the group of agents and steers him to the elevators with a hand at the small of his back. Neal does his best to maneuver away from that gentle touch but if Peter’s hand isn’t there, it is at his shoulder or his waist or his arm, guiding or pulling or pushing. He is the handsiest man Neal knows, and it’s been driving him crazy for years. Heat seems to radiate out of the palms of Peter’s hands to burn through worsted wool and fine cotton. There are evenings, after he gets home from work, that Neal checks himself out in the bedroom mirror to see if he has scorch marks on his skin.

Neal grits his teeth as everyone piles into the already crowded elevator and he is pressed back against Peter’s chest. It isn’t just his hands that radiate heat, but his whole body, and Neal starts to sweat. At least that’s the excuse he makes to himself; that it isn’t the close bodily contact or Peter’s breath against his hair, or the hand at his waist. It takes all of Neal’s considerable self-control not to rock his hips backwards, to press his buttocks against Peter’s groin. _Damn him, damn him, damn him_.

The trip down takes an age, stopping at least seven times before landing in the lobby. Diana, the probies and Jones turn left while Peter tugs Neal to the right, towards the burger place he favors on warm days when they can sit in relative privacy in the courtyard.

Peter strides ahead, not bothering to make small talk, leaving Neal to trail behind him like a puppy on a leash. He says nothing until they are seated at their favorite table and their order is placed.

“What is so urgent that you didn’t give me a chance to even accept the invitation?” Despite the question, Neal keeps his voice light, his tone carefully disinterested.

Peter just grins at him. “I got it.”

“Got what?”

Neal isn’t completely sure what Peter is talking about until he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a leather folder. His breath catches in his throat and he is afraid to blink.

“Is that what I think - what I hope it is?” He licks his lips.

“Yeah, it is.” Peter’s smile is bright enough to rival Times Square at midnight.

Neal holds out his hand but Peter pulls the folder back.

“You take this; it’s a whole new ball game. You’re not a confidential informant anymore, no more playing games - you take this and it’s regulations and rules all the way. It’s paperwork and overtime and toeing the line.”

“But I report to you, right?”

Peter grimaces slightly. “No, you’ll report to Hughes. He insisted on that. If we’re to be partners in this rather unusual relationship - he doesn’t want you to be my subordinate.

Neal blinks, this is unexpected. “So, what does that mean?”

“It doesn’t mean we’re peers, that’s for certain.”

Neal smirks. “That thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“No?”

“Well, maybe for a nanosecond. But really, what do I have to look forward to as Hughes’ employee?” Neal leans back in his chair, his eyes glued to the leather case.

“You’re his direct report for administrative purposes, and it does mean he will be able to pull you onto special projects, but only with my approval.”

“So, nothing like what happened with Rice?”

“Nope - that won’t happen again, not unless I say it’s all right.”

“So, if I piss you off enough and Ruiz wants me to put on a dress and sashay down 12th Avenue trying to pick up mob guys, you’ll give him the okay?”

“Pretty much. So don’t piss me off.”

Neal tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

“Well, anymore than you usually do.”

Neal holds out his hand for the ID folder and Peter gives it to him with a flourish, much as he did that day long ago on June’s rooftop terrace. He holds his breath and opens it; the contents shouldn’t have been a surprise. They’ve been working on this for the better part of six months, negotiations and planning and staffing recs, drafting and redrafting job descriptions, and still more negotiations. Everything came to fruition two weeks ago.

 _“I’m going to have a new ID photo taken. Which tie?” Neal holds out four different ones, as well as three different shirts, asking for advice from anyone who passed by his desk._

 _By now, everyone in the office knows that Neal will be staying on with the Bureau after his parole ends. Officially, he’s an analyst assigned to the entire department, unofficially he’s Peter Burke’s partner. And whatever he is, he’s no longer a CI._

 _Jones suggests the narrow red and black vintage Italian affair he once lent to Peter, coupled with the white Dior. Peter takes one look at the tie and makes a face. Neal tosses the tie aside a little mournfully. It’s one of his favorites, but for some reason, if Peter doesn’t like it, he doesn’t want it on his ID. Diana is favoring the blue tie with the white shirt and Blake is too. Neal likes the pink shirt and the maroon Zegna tie, but everyone nixes the idea, one does not wear a pink shirt in an official photo. Peter seems to like the blue and white combination too, and made an off-hand suggestion that he wear the black suit. Diana chuckles at the thought of Peter offering any sort of fashion advice, but Neal takes it as gospel._

 _He goes home during his lunch hour, changes suits and presents himself, in the black Devore, white shirt and ice blue tie to the Office of the Administrator. Like the DMV, they let him choose which photo he wanted. He wants to pick the one where he had the full Caffrey on, but the photographer gently suggests that an ID photo with a toothy grin is not in keeping with Bureau tradition. He ends up selecting the picture with a half smirk._

 

Neal tilts the ID, allowing the hologrammed FBI seal to catch the afternoon light. He is surprised at the satisfaction this simple thing gives him. Four years ago, if anyone said to him that he’d be signing on as a full-fledged employee of the FBI, he’d have told them they were nuts.

“And the rest of it?” Neal is surprised at how nervous he sounds.

Peter pulls out a sheaf of papers. “Your contract - for lack of a better term. Hughes will administer your oath next week, right after the tracker comes off for good.”

“Say that again, Peter.”

Peter just wags his eyebrows and gives Neal the documents.

He reads through them, and everything is in order. “Should I sign them now?”

“Once you sign them, there’s no going back. Remember what I just told you - the latitude you’ve had, that I’ve been able to give you, disappears. Once you sign them, you’re an employee of the Federal Government. You can always quit, of course - but you do that, you’re done - you can’t come back.”

Peter has his serious business face on. Neal understands what he is telling him, and he knows how difficult it is going to be. But the thought of being separated from Peter is almost more than he can bear, so he’ll do what he needs to stay close. It doesn’t matter that Peter has no clue how much Neal loves him, it doesn’t matter that Peter will never return his feelings, or ever look at him with anything more than fond exasperation or touch him except in that casual, off-hand way. It is enough, _it will have to be enough_ , that he can work next to Peter, stand beside him - if not as a peer, then always as an intellectual equal. He isn’t going to let Peter slip through his fingers the way Kate had.

He takes out the Quantico pen he had lifted from Peter some three years ago and signs his name with a flourish. He doesn’t hand the documents immediately back to Peter - instead, he looks at the signature page with a bemused smile.

“What?”

“I never thought I’d be signing something this important with my full signature in ordinary ink, in broad daylight. I never thought I’d be one to sign on the dotted line - with my real name.” Neal chuckles. “No need to look at this under black light.”

Neal finally folds the papers up and gives them back to Peter, who promises to give him his own copies. The server brings their order and both men eat in companionable silence.

The rest of the week passes without incident or excitement, they are working together on unraveling a series of stock scams that were initially thought to be unrelated. It’s “The Peter and Neal Show” at its finest. Peter notices something, and then Neal finds something else and the two of them are working fifteen hour days tracking the schemes through various brokerage houses and aliases and stock exchanges.

Like most times when they are working together, just the two of them, Neal has a little trouble keeping his attention on the matter at hand. He finds himself watching Peter’s mouth with the intensity of a predatory lion, wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by those lips. Would Peter be slow and methodical, coolly rendering him senseless? Or would he be hot, hard and demanding - wrecking him, destroying him in the most devilish ways?

“From the looks of you - I think we need to call it a night. What time is it anyway?” Peter glances down at his watch. “After midnight - good thing El won’t be home until Sunday afternoon. She’d kill both of us.”

Neal snaps out of his daze. “Both of us?”

“Yeah - because I’d tell her it’s your fault for keeping me up on a school night.” Peter smirks at him, and Neal clenches all his muscles -- all of them. This is one of his favorite expressions; it never fails to bring _something_ up inside him.

“Do you want to work on this over the weekend?” Neal’s question is all innocence, with just a touch of eagerness. If El is away, Peter would be on his own -- lonely, maybe a bit bored. Someone needs to take care of him.

“What - no plans with Moz? No museums to case, or paintings to forge?” Peter’s mocking smile raises an answering grin from Neal.

“Hey - I’m a solid citizen now. Come noon on Monday, you get to take this damn thing off for the very last time.” Neal leans back and lifts his leg onto the conference room table, displaying the black plastic tracker.

“Solid citizen or not, get your feet off the furniture.” Peter brushes his fingers against Neal’s sock-clad calf and he nearly falls out of his chair from the heat and electricity of that momentary contact.

“So - wanna work on this? Wrap it up in a great big bow for the bosses on Monday morning; show everyone how it’s done by the crack team of Caffrey and Burke?”

“Neal - I think by now, everyone knows how it’s done by Burke & Caffrey - but if you are so eager to keep going, why not.”

He grins - it’s always almost too easy these days to get Peter to extend their work day. “Do you want me to cook?”

Peter looks at him through narrowed eyes, and Neal freezes. Has he overdone it? Gone too far? He has cooked for Peter before, for both Peter and Elizabeth - many times over the last year or so. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

“Bribe you? For what?” Neal is instantaneously relieved.

“I don’t know - but your Coq Au Vin is worth killing over.”

“I don’t think I offered to make Coq Au Vin, but if that’s what you want…”

Peter’s chuckle goes right through him. “I knew I was keeping you around for a reason.”

They box up the folders and take them down to the car. Late nights always mean that Peter goes out of his way to drop Neal off. “Look - why don’t you stay in our guest room tonight, we’ll get an early start at it tomorrow.”

Neal rocks back on his heels - there is no way he is going to spend the night under Peter’s roof without Elizabeth there. Not that he would ever _do_ anything, but still. It is wrong. “If you don’t want to drop me off, I shouldn’t have any trouble getting a taxi.” His skills at catching cabs, even at the worst hours of the day or night, are uncanny. “Besides, if you really want Coq Au Vin, I’ll need to get to a butcher, and then the markets.” He could see Peter weighing the inconvenience of a later start against the appeal of a Cordon Bleu level dinner.

“Okay, you win.”

“I always do.” Neal replies with no small amount of irony.

The drive uptown is short at that hour of the night - almost too short for Neal. Even though the better part of the last six hours has been spent alone in Peter’s company, and he is looking forward to most of tomorrow with the man. He finds getting out of the car and bidding Peter goodnight difficult. It is like ending an evening after a spectacular date - he wants to invite Peter up for coffee, to stretch out the time. He wants to tell Peter to take him back to Brooklyn and they’d go shopping together. He wants …

“Are you ever going to get out of the car, Caffrey? You waiting for a kiss goodnight?”

 _Yes - Yes - Yes_ Neal’s heart goes into overdrive, but he forces himself to make a joke and gets out of the car.

It takes hours for Neal to fall asleep that night.

 _“Ne-al, Ne-al. Whatcha doing?” Neal opens his eyes and Peter is naked and kneeling over him, running his fingers around and around his left nipple, then down to his navel, gently finger-fucking the indentation._

 _“I -- uhh -- I’m…”_

 _“Cat got your tongue, Caffrey?”_

 _Neal opens his mouth to reply, but Peter swoops down and captures his lips in a very ungentle kiss. There are no boundaries, no respect - his mouth is taking and taking without asking. He tries to catch his breath, but Peter seems to be breathing for him. He is surrounded by heat and skin and the musk of an aroused man - the very particular musk of an aroused Peter Burke._

 _They are on the bed in his apartment and Peter is taking him apart inch by inch. There isn’t a place on his body that’s safe from Peter’s hands and fingers and lips. Neal is completely at Peter’s mercy and he revels in that possession - giving himself over to Peter, body, mind and soul. This is what he longs for, what he needs, what he wants. To belong to someone, to matter to someone._

 _Peter licks a hot, wet stripe up his throat, biting at his chin and then taking his mouth again, sucking his lower lip between his teeth, marking him, claiming him. Neal tries to thrust himself against the heavy heat and finds…_

Nothing.

Neal opened his eyes, wincing at the bright sunlight. It’s Sunday afternoon. He and Peter worked all day Saturday after Neal set the chicken to cook, and Peter had graciously insisted on taking him home when they once again lost track of time and worked and argued until after midnight.

His cock is rock hard, aching for what he’ll never have. Elizabeth is due home this afternoon, and Peter is undoubtedly on his way to JFK to pick her up.

Neal thinks about yesterday - cooking in Elizabeth’s kitchen, using her pots and pans, setting her table with her dishes and cutlery. Washing up - or Peter washing up and he doing the drying. A proper domestic fantasy, until it is time to leave.

 _This isn’t his place. This isn’t his home._

Neal wonders if staying with the Bureau, staying close to Peter is going to be the worst thing he ever does in his entire life.

* * *

 

 **Three Months Ago – Maybe a Tuesday Afternoon**

 

THE ANKLET IS GONE, BUT NEAL STAYS.

Peter wonders why he isn’t happier. It isn’t that he’s unhappy, _per se,_ he is just not satisfied. At work, Neal is the perfect partner, a breathtaking combination of genius and madness. They still fit together like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, but there is something different, and it is slowly driving Peter insane.

Neal is just not interested in spending any time with him _after_ work, and Peter can’t seem to figure out why. It isn’t an immediate thing - he doesn’t feel like Neal has been pretending something - has conned him into getting him a well-paying position with the Bureau. If there is one thing that Peter has learned about Neal, it’s that money never matters to him. At first, it concerned him how easily Neal could get cash – but eventually he confessed that the money was obtained legitimately - playing in poker cash games, backgammon tournaments, and lately he’s developed a real talent for picking stocks (often much better than most Wall Street pundits). Which always drives Peter crazy. Neal could have been, no - he should have been - a force to be reckoned with, instead of a reformed felon.

But that isn’t even the point - somewhere over the last three months, he seems to have _lost_ Neal. After Elizabeth, it is Neal whose company he most enjoys. And yet, for some reason, Neal has pretty much locked him out. It started with their lunches - instead of the complementary brilliance he is accustomed to, Neal is distant, almost absent when it is just the two of them. Worse, Neal is regularly declining his invitations, usually citing work load. Since he is Neal’s partner, he knows exactly what the work load is, and doesn’t buy that excuse one bit, but he is too hurt to call Neal on the half-truth.

At least Neal still is a frequent guest at the house, but never without Elizabeth present, and he never accepts or makes any offers to go for a drink or a meal unless a third person is joining them. It is as if – and not really _as if_ – Neal didn’t want to be alone with him anymore.

Peter looks out over the bullpen – as usual, if Neal’s head isn’t down over a file, he is chatting with an agent or one of the civilian staff. After a very rocky four years, there is no one in the office who doesn’t like Neal, and it is plain to see how much Neal revels in that. Neal needs to be liked and admired; he blossoms when he has the chance to put on a show, something he is doing right now. Diana, Clinton, Blake are gathered around Neal’s desk, and he is demonstrating something that involves the hat, an origami flower and a rubber band ball.

The shine is there, the Neal Caffrey glow, but to Peter’s eyes, he looks tired and a little worn out. Maybe in the company of the other agents, he’ll be able to draw Neal out. He goes downstairs, and while he doesn’t precisely sneak up on Neal, he does nothing to announce his presence.

Neal is now juggling the rubber band ball, an apple, someone’s badge, and a cell phone, his movements effortless and graceful.

“Whatcha doing?”

Peter’s a trifle disappointed that Neal is completely unfazed (he half-hopes to startle him into dropping everything). He seems to ignore Peter as he tosses the apple to Diana, the badge to Blake (of course, Diana and Jones know better than to let Neal get his fingers on their IDs), the cell phone to Jones and he lets the ball bounce once on the floor before he catches it in his hat and places it back on his desk.

“Just trying to explain the physics of juggling to the Scooby gang here.” Neal smiles - not quite the full Caffrey, but close.

 _Perfect_. “Well, seeing as you have some time for fun and games, let’s go to lunch.” Neal’s eyes widen at the double entendre. Peter glares at his agents, clearly communicating that they need to get back to work and not think about joining them, even if Neal issues an invitation. The three of them sort of slink back to their desks, but not before Diana gives Peter a very quizzical look. Peter ignores her.

Neal dons his hat and his jacket without comment and goes to the elevator bank. Peter’s alarmed by Neal’s posture and body language. He’s known him long enough to realize that the stiff set of his shoulders, the raised chin and the nearly straight line of his eyebrows were telling him “stay back - keep your distance,” and once again he wonders at what he has done for Neal to be reacting like this.

“I thought we’d head back to the house for lunch. El’s got a refrigerator full of leftovers from a wedding reception that got cancelled at the last minute. The groom, apparently, never finalized his divorce. Or more accurately, he never filed for divorce. Neither from his first nor from his second wife. It seems that they both showed up at the church with the local PD and an arrest warrant for bigamy and attempted bigamy.”

That gets a laugh out of Neal. “Talk about a soap opera moment. Did they wait until the priest said, ‘Speak now or forever hold your peace’?”

“El didn’t say - she was furious. Apparently the groom was to be footing the bill for the catering and his checks bounced rather spectacularly.”

“Elizabeth’s not on the hook, is she?” Neal’s voice holds a wealth of worry.

Peter is surprised at how concerned Neal seems to be about El’s business troubles. “No - for weddings, she doesn’t directly contract with any of the suppliers, she just brokers the arrangements. In cases like this, it’s difficult for her personally - but she doesn’t carry the financial burden.”

The trip to Brooklyn is filled with conversation about their latest case, as well as Peter’s upcoming testimony on the last art theft case Neal worked on as a CI. The trial is scheduled to start early next month, and the USADA has sent over transcripts from Peter’s grand jury testimony and his deposition. Peter wants to set aside a block of time for the two of them to run through both sets of transcripts and any potential issues that might come up. Neal’s involvement was significant and essential, and as with any case involving critical contributions from a CI, the government’s case needs to be absolutely spotless.

“You have your choice - you can get lunch ready or walk the dog. Which is it?”

“Elizabeth’s not working from home?”

Peter can’t understand the wariness in Neal’s voice.

“Nope. El left for Boston early this morning. She’s trying out caterers for a new corporate client, but she’ll be home before dinnertime.”

For some reason, that information seems to relax Neal. “Ahhh - that’s why we’re dining at Chez Burke. Does the FBI know that your lunch hour is scheduled around your dog’s bodily functions?” Neal heads into the kitchen, making the choice obvious.

Peter snaps on Satchmo’s leash and takes the dog out. He contemplates the problem during the short walk, and wonders whether it is better to ignore it or confront the issue. He likes to think of himself as a man of action, and prior experience has taught him that ignoring Neal’s emotional state can (and will) be disastrous. This seems as good a time as any to talk to Neal - to get to the root of the problem.

By the time Satch gets done watering every tree and hydrant on their block and Peter comes back inside, Neal has lunch almost ready. It is a strange thing, but Neal is almost more comfortable in his kitchen than Peter is. He knows the location of every pot, pan and serving dish. He understands that he needs to nurse the quirky left rear burner on the range top to a full flame and that the oven is perpetually fifty degrees off the reading on the thermostat. At least in the case of lunch, Neal just makes use of the toaster oven to reheat a selection of hors d’oeuvres and the microwave for some soup.

Lunch is on the table when Peter comes downstairs after washing up and he finds Neal looking over their small selection of wine. “Don’t think about it. We both have too much work to do - and besides, the Bureau frowns on alcohol consumption during the lunch hour.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort. Just that you’ve upgraded your selection of reds and they should probably keep them in a more climate controlled environment.” Neal’s comment seems off-hand, but it strikes Peter as oddly forced. All the more reason to get things out in the open.

They eat - or at least Peter does, Neal just picks at his food.

Peter takes their plates back into the kitchen and leaves them for clean up later. When he comes back out, Neal has his hat and suit jacket on and is clearly ready to leave.

“Neal, sit down. We need to talk.”

His partner suddenly gets that squirrelly expression - when he won’t look anyone squarely in the eyes. “We do need to get back to the office. You know - solve cases, prevent crimes, catch the bad guys. Investigate things.”

“I think I know our workload, to the exact number of cases and folders on your desk and on mine. There is nothing that won’t keep for an extra hour or so.”

That seems to catch Neal’s attention. “We need to have an hour-long discussion? About what? Is this some sneaky, out of cycle performance review? Because, you know I really should be told in advance. That’s in the FBI personnel manual.”

“Which you’ve read and undoubtedly memorized.”

“Undoubtedly.” The grin Neal gives him is as fake as one of the Haustenbergs hanging in the Channing Museum.

“Neal - sit.”

He does but is clearly unwilling to give in. “Should I stay and give you my paw to shake? Or should I just roll over and let you scratch my belly?”

Peter shakes his head in frustration. “Damn it, Neal. Just...just be quiet for a few minutes - okay?” He sits down across from him and tries to frame his words in some way that won’t come across as crazy or offensive. When he sees Neal’s half-smirk, he gives up trying to be diplomatic and plunges right in.

“What’s wrong, Neal?”

“Wrong?”

“Yeah - there’s something going on and I need to know what the matter is. I can’t fix it if I’m left in the dark.”

“What makes you think there’s something that wrong?”

“Damn it - stop rephrasing everything I say, Neal. Have I done something? Not done something?”

Neal goes completely still. Peter knows this is one of Neal’s few tells - an involuntary reaction in a moment of high emotion. “Why do you think there’s something wrong?” So typically Neal - trying to get the lay of the land before crafting the perfect answer. Peter has no problem with that in this instance.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He keeps it short. No need to elaborate; he’ll let Neal draw it out.

“I haven’t been avoiding you. How can you even say that? I’m with you all day long at the office.” Rather than that squirrelly look, Neal’s eyes are wide open; soulfully gazing at a spot somewhere over Peter’s left shoulder.

“You have - and you know it.”

“No, Peter. I don’t.”

“Do you know this is the first time we’ve had lunch together in nearly a month and a half?”

“What are you talking about? We had lunch three times last week.” Neal’s jaw is clenched and if Peter didn’t know him better, he’d think he was getting angry.

“Yeah - twice was with Elizabeth and once with Jones, whom you dragged along right after I asked you.”

Neal doesn’t say anything.

“I can’t remember the last time we’ve shared a meal or even a drink - just the two of us - in months. Have I done something?” Peter swallows against a lump in his throat. He wonders if he sounds like a teenager trying to figure out why his girlfriend is dumping him. He’s afraid to look at Neal, afraid to see a mocking expression on the other man’s face.

However, what he sees surprises him. In a blink of an eye, deep sadness, a touch of shame and something like hunger cross Neal’s face, before it’s once again schooled to blankness.

“I’m sorry - I hadn’t realized. I thought…” Neal’s pause becomes pregnant.

“You thought what?” Peter tries to fill in - with something - anything.

“That you were asking out of habit.”

“Habit? Why would you think that?”

“Well - when I was on parole, I couldn’t really go anywhere after hours unless I was with you, and I thought well - that you were just in the habit of asking - you were being nice.” Neal’s voice trails off - as excuses go, it was probably one of the worst that Peter’s ever gotten out of Neal.

“So let me get this straight - you thought that I had been spending time with you out of pity, and had merely forgotten that you no longer had a two-mile radius? And you were turning me down because you thought….what? You’re logic escapes me.”

“I thought that you had better things to do than nursemaid me - especially now that it’s no longer necessary. I figured you had enough of my company during the workday.” Neal can’t seem to hide the misery on his face or in his voice.

Peter blinks - this is not what he expects to hear. “Neal - I thought you understood that we are friends. And even so - you should know by now that I don’t pity you or need to babysit you or however you want to put it. I enjoy your company.”

There it is again - that moment of complete stillness and then something that flares to life, something that burns hot and is quickly smothered. Finally, a small, tentative smile curves on Neal’s lips. “You do?”

“Neal - we are friends - after everything, how can you doubt that?” Peter’s flabbergasted.

“I thought - I thought that you were protecting me - your career - my parole. I know you’ve had my back and we’re partners, but I really never figured you thought of me like that.”

The eager happiness coloring Neal’s words almost undoes Peter. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember just how damaged and emotionally bereft Neal is. Neal has not gone on a date in months - and even then, the ones he’s been on were set up by Elizabeth. His social life seems to consist of chess and wine and scheming with Mozzie, or up until the last few months, drinks and dinners with him, or with him and El. While that means that at least Neal’s staying out of trouble, it also means he’s living a lonely and almost unnatural life.

Peter remembers some of the advice that El’s given to him, particularly about Neal, and about opening up. So he decides to take a big risk. “I’m not an easy person - I think you know that.”

Neal smiles, gives a small huff of laughter and nods.

Peter looks at his hands, a little embarrassed by what he’s about to say. “I don’t make friends easily - I never have. Most people - well at least in this neighborhood - really aren’t comfortable being pals with an FBI agent, particularly in White Collar crime.” At Neal’s puzzled look, he explains that it’s the yuppie bankers and their lawyers that have displaced and replaced the blue collar working class families who would prefer not to socialize with someone who may be putting them in jail next year.

“I’m no one’s choice for a drinking buddy - not that that’s really my idea of fun.” He looks at Neal, trying to will his understanding. “There are a few grade-equal colleagues at the Bureau and the NYPD that I’ll occasionally spend an evening with - we’ll swap war stories. But there’s no one I really spend much of my free time with - or I want to spend time with on a regular basis.” _Except you_

“What about guys you play ball with? You always seem to have a standing date for baseball or basketball, depending on the season.”

“Neal - you really think that those guys are my intellectual equals - that we have anything in common other than sports?” Peter chuckles, undercutting the vanity of his statement.

Neal shrugs and looks down. “I know what you mean. It’s hard sometimes … I mean, I know a lot of people; there are - were - a lot of people who’ve called me ‘friend’ – who are pleased to know me, but maybe with the exception of Moz and you…” Neal’s voice trails off.

“Yeah. Neither of us are Mr. Popularity, are we? Too smart for our own good.”

Neal nods and Peter feels some of the tension that’s been gripping him relax. “When you started turning me down - I felt … I felt - I guess - hurt. Sort of lonely.” It’s Peter’s turn to shrug, this was getting deep into emotional territory.

“I’m sorry - I really didn’t think you thought of me like that - I mean - like real friends.”

“We are - we most definitely are.” Peter’s completely puzzled – after everything they’ve been through, all the scrapes and dangers and just the simple day-to-day getting on, Neal’s doubted his friendship. But if there’s one thing he knows, Neal doesn’t tell him a direct lie. So Peter accepts what he’s told.

“Yeah. We’re good.”

Neal smiles at Peter - it’s the first genuine one he’s gotten from him in what feels like an age. He smiles back.

“Peter?”

“Yes, Neal?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this - for everything.”

That afternoon – back at the office, Peter sits at his desk, looking out over the bullpen, watching his team, watching Neal. He supposes he should be happier – having cleared the air with Neal. Instead, he feels like slime. _“Neal - we are friends - after everything, how can you doubt that?”_ Yeah, friends…but how do you tell your friend that you’re in love with him, and have been for years? That you’re obsessed with him and you’d do anything to keep him close, by your side? How do you say to your best friend, “I love you, I want you, I need you” and not send him running for the hills?

* * *

 **Three Months Later - A Friday Night  
**

IT’S A RARE FRIDAY THAT ELIZABETH DOESN’T HAVE TO WORK, AND THEY ARE SHARING A QUIET DINNER that Neal cooked. They’ve all had a little too much to drink - Peter most of all. Flushed with wine and good food, Elizabeth is finally relaying the story of that disastrous wedding in Connecticut.

“So, just as the minister was about to pronounce the happy couple ‘husband and wife’ – one of the groom’s _other_ wives shouted ‘we’re not divorced,’ and still another one yelled ‘don’t you dare marry him. He’s a limp-dicked bigamist who comes too soon.’ The police from both Greenwich and Suffolk counties nearly got into a fist fight about who got to serve arrest warrants. The minister was so shocked that he dropped his bible, and the bride’s mother fainted.”

Elizabeth, Peter and Neal are laughing so hard that none of them can catch their breath.

“Wait… I … thought that … that you … can’t arrest … someone … in a church.” Neal struggles to get the question out, wheezing around his laughter.

Peter snorts and wipes tears from his eyes. “Well … technically you can’t pursue a fleeing suspect who claims sanctuary inside a … house of … worship, but you can be arrested if you’re committing a crime in a church.”

Elizabeth chimes in, “Especially if you are a limp-dicked, serial bigamist.”

That starts everyone laughing again. Satchmo, who had come to investigate if there were any leftovers he could mooch, flees back into the kitchen, clearly put out by the noise from all the humans.

Elizabeth finally gets control of herself. “It really _wasn’t_ funny at the time. The poor bride was humiliated.”

“It wasn’t her fault.” Peter says.

“No – not her fault, but still – to have her wedding interrupted, like that – in front of her family, her friends. You really don’t live something like that down.” She pours out the rest of the Amarone that Neal brought, savoring the richness of the Italian red that went so perfectly with the meal he cooked for them. Once she confesses to him how much she actually dislikes cooking, Neal takes over their kitchen on a regular basis. Most Sunday nights that she is home, Neal is their chef, and many times when she is working or traveling, Neal will cook for Peter. It’s an arrangement that suits her perfectly - she’s happy, her husband’s happy. Neal? He seems to be happy. But sometimes she just can’t tell.

She looks at Peter over the rim of her wineglass. He’s relaxed tonight; whatever issues he’s had with Neal seem to have cleared up a few months ago. All he said was that he took her advice and they talked. Neal looks happier too, but she isn’t quite sure that it wasn’t just a very well-placed mask. There have been times when he doesn’t know that she’s watching that something slips and she gets a quick glimpse of raw emotion.

“So, what happened to the groom?” Vulgar curiosity and professional interest are lighting up Peter’s eyes.

“He was hauled back to New York where he apparently emptied his bank account to make bail. The checks for the caterers bounced and they filed a criminal complaint. The Greenwich County sheriff came and re-arrested him on larceny charges.”

“That seems a bit vindictive.” Neal, in a moment of criminal reflection, is almost rooting for the man.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” Peter’s response is cynical, but the slightly drunken hiccough ruins the effect.

“And the only way to get to Carnegie Hall is to practice, practice, practice.” Elizabeth chuckles at her own inebriated silliness.

Neal starts to remove the plates, he seems to be the least intoxicated of the three of them. Peter tries to get up and help him, but between their earlier hilarity and the better part of a bottle of wine, he can’t seem to get out of his chair.

She pushes Neal back into his chair. “You cooked, I’ll clean up.”

Neal looks up at her, a warm, sweet smile on his wine-stained lips, his blue eyes bright and glowing, and it’s all she can do not to bend down and kiss him like a lover. Instead, she grabs his dinner plate and Peter’s and scrapes the remains onto hers. No reason that Satchmo shouldn’t have a treat just because she’s in lust with her husband’s partner.

“Coffee, anyone?”

Both Neal and Peter promptly turn down her offer. She’s a tea person, and her coffee is actually worse than the swill they make at their office.

She dumps the plate scrapings into the dog’s bowl and Satch makes short work of it. It doesn’t take too long to wash up. Neal’s a tidy and organized chef, who cleans up as he works.

Next to a bottle of Riesling, there’s a box from The Greatest Cake and she peeks inside - profiteroles. _yum_

She grabs the wine (and why shouldn’t there be more wine?), the box, fresh glasses and a few plates, and manages to get into the dining room without dropping anything. Until she sees the expression on Neal’s face.

He’s looking at Peter, who’s fallen asleep in his chair, like he is his sole reason for existing. The love on Neal’s face, the despair, the longing, the naked emotions pouring out of his eyes as he gazes at her sleeping husband frighten her. One of the glasses slips out of her hand and lands on the carpet with a gentle thud. Neal turns at the noise and sees her. Before the mask falls back into place, grief and guilt stain Neal’s cheeks.

“Neal…” Her voice is a whisper. She wants to acknowledge what she saw, to let him know that she understands, but he shakes. Not just his head, but his whole body – he’s begging her to forget this last moment, to forget that he’s forever wanting something he knows he can’t have. She understands and wills Neal to see that - but it’s not the time and it’s not the place for this discussion. And so, for this moment, this piece of the _now_ she lets Neal believe that she didn’t see the adoration, the perfect desire, the love he has been carrying like a secret banner.

He walks toward her and she stands her ground. Neal’s smile is almost heartbreaking. He picks up the fallen glass and brushes a kiss against her cheek.

“I think I should go.”

“Would you like…” She licks her lips. “Would you like to help me get Peter upstairs, into bed?” It’s not an offer for anything, and Neal can see that. But the intimacy of the request - no, this is not something he’s ready for. She lets him pry the remaining glasses and the wine bottle out of her stiff fingers, and he puts them on the table. She watches as he goes to Peter and gently shakes him awake.

Her husband rolls his head and brushes up against Neal, who freezes. Peter murmurs something, and Neal turns beet red and steps back, and Elizabeth fights to keep a grin off her face. Her husband must be dreaming quite deeply, because he has a rather charming habit of muttering sexy sweet nothings in his sleep. _Pornographically sexy_.

In a way, it’s kind of appropriate, and it helps to break the tension that’s been eating at them from the shadows.

Neal grins at her, his composure restored. “I’ll take Satch for a walk and let you deal with your filthy-mouthed husband, and then I’m going to head home.”

“Will you be okay to drive?” The week his anklet came off, she took him for his written and then his road test so he could get a license in his own name, legitimately. Peter took him shopping for a car. She hadn’t seen him that frustrated with Neal in a long time. Peter tried to steer him to something practical, but Neal wasn’t having anything of the sort. And yet, it didn’t take much to get her husband to admit that he wouldn’t mind a chance or two behind the wheel of the little BMW roadster Neal bought.

“Yeah - I’ll clear my head with a walk around the block.” Neal takes Satchmo out and El manages to get Peter up and into bed before he returns.

She can see he almost wants to talk about what happened – or more precisely, what didn’t happen earlier in the evening. She’s not quite ready for this, and Neal isn’t either – she’s known him long enough to tell. But he needs something to keep going.

Neal leans in to kiss her cheek. She whispers to him. “You mean the world to Peter – there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. Don’t ever forget that.”

Neal rears back and looks at her, hope and fear and longing chase each other across his eyes. “And what about you, Mrs. Burke?” Neal’s question could mean so many things, but she knew what he was asking.

“We’ve been married for almost fifteen years, and I know that Peter would burn the world down for me, if I asked. And I would do the same for him.”

Neal rears back, his eyes wide as he digests what Elizabeth is telling him.

She pushes him out the door. “Go home, get some sleep.

Elizabeth closes the door behind Neal and rests against it. _Tomorrow. This is going to end tomorrow, they have got to stop hurting each other._

 

 **Saturday Morning**

 **  
**

PETER CAN’T REMEMBER GETTING QUITE SO HUNG OVER FROM WINE IN A LONG, LONG TIME. The light coming through the sheer bedroom curtains is stabbing his eyeballs and the sound of rushing water from the bathroom may as well have been a death-metal concert in the way it makes his head pound. He lies there, hoping the stillness will make some of the pain go away.

The shower is turned off and Peter is relieved by the momentary silence. Then Elizabeth comes back into the bedroom, the scent of her floral body wash making him nauseous. When she opens the curtains, Peter throws the covers over his head and lets out a short moan.

Bless Elizabeth – nearly fifteen years of marriage and she understands completely. The shades are dropped, plunging the room into darkness, she adjusts his covers and gets him a cold compress, a large glass of water and some aspirin. He downs the water and the refill and goes back to sleep. When Peter opens his eyes two hours later, he feels surprising well and the smell of coffee from downstairs is the perfect enticement to get out of bed.

He showers and dresses and goes downstairs. El is on the couch, going through some papers in preparation for an event tomorrow.

“Hi, hon.”

She looks up, a smile in her eyes. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah – remind me next time that I don’t need to match Neal’s consumption.”

El laughs. “Stay away from the coffee – at least until you’ve had a few glasses of orange juice.”

Peter follows her advice, downing half a container before pouring himself a cup of coffee. He takes a sip – it tastes awful after the sweet/sour juice. He takes it with him into the living room and sits next to his wife.

Comfortable in her companionship, Peter leans back and sighs.

El looks at him. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.” He reaches for her and pulls her close. “Have I told you lately how much I love you, Mrs. Burke?”

El kisses him, hard and sharp and swift. “Every day, Mr. Burke.”

She cuddles next to him, and Peter wraps an arm around her. They stay like that, in perfect marital harmony until El asks him the question that shatters his contentment.

“When are you going to tell Neal that you love him?”

Peter freezes – his blood runs cold and fear forms an icy knot in his gut. He sits up, dislodging Elizabeth.

“What…what do you mean?”

She smiles and takes his hand.

“I’ve been watching the two of you for over four years, I have eyes in my head.

Peter pulls back. “El – I’d…I’d never…” He can’t finish the sentence.

His wife cups his cheek. “I know, hon. But I also know how big your heart is.”

Peter’s silent, absorbing what El is trying to tell him.

He lifts his chin and looks her in the eye. “Neal doesn’t feel that way about me. Hell – he barely understands that we’re friends. Did I tell you that he was avoiding me because he thought I was taking pity on him?”

“And did you ever consider that maybe Neal wasn’t being completely honest with you?”

“Neal doesn’t lie to me – he’ll let me assume, he’ll misdirect. But he’s never directly lied.”

El gets that little frown line between her eyes. “But he also doesn’t always give you the full story.”

Peter scrubbed at his face; the headache that he had earlier was trying to come back with a vengeance. “El … I don’t know…”

“Peter, you didn’t see his face last night. You were in your chair, dozing and Neal was looking at you like, like you had all of the answers to every question in the universe. Like he was starving and would only eat from your hand.”

“No … no.”

“Why is it so difficult to accept, hon?”

He shakes his head. “I… there are - there should be - boundaries. We - we work together, it would be wrong. Difficult.” Peter closes his eyes and sees disaster with every possible outcome.

“Did you ever consider that maybe Neal stayed on because he wanted to stay with _you_? He could have gone anywhere, done anything. He had offers, you know.”

“Offers? What do you mean?” Peter licks his lips.

“Neal and I had lunch a few weeks before you unlocked him for the last time - he told me that he had an offer from Stuart Gless to join Atlantic Securities and head up their fraud department. He had an offer from the Channing and another from the Powell - and they were prepared to get into a bidding war for his services.”

Peter’s heart lurches. He had no clue.

El continues in her own merciless fashion. “Neal thought it was funny - particularly the museum offers.”

“And Stuart Gless?”

“Neal didn’t laugh at that one. He said that it was his fallback position if he couldn’t come to terms with the Bureau. Apparently he’s been in contact with Gless for the past few years - and has lunch with him and his daughter on a regular basis. I think he was seriously considering it - the money was good and the work interesting. I can’t think why he turned it down for a small desk, long hours and the potential for regular doses of mortgage fraud and gun violence. Unless it was because he wanted to stay with _you_.”

Peter goes to pick up his coffee and his hands are shaking. He is confused and inexplicably angry. “What do you want me to do, El?”

She strokes a gentle hand across his cheek. It does nothing to relieve his anxiety.

“I want you to stop lying to yourself. And I want you to stop feeling guilty and ashamed and angry.”

“Do you also want me to go over to Neal’s, plant a big kiss on his lips and tell him I love him?” Peter tone is bitter, facetious.

His wife, the woman he loves and trusts more than anything in the world, just says one word. “Yes.”

El gets up and goes into the kitchen. Or maybe upstairs. Peter stays on the couch, staring blankly out into nowhere. His brain tries to skitter away from what they talked about, what El told him, but it kept circling back to one idea.

 _Neal stayed because of you._

A year ago, when he had first broached the idea of him staying on, Peter fully expected Neal to laugh and say “You’ve got to be kidding...I’ve just spent four years locked to your side. There’s a whole world out there to explore.”

Instead, Neal said yes and smiled and Peter didn’t question Neal’s decision. It was like the sun rising after the longest night of the year. Peter had to work hard to keep the incandescent joy he felt to himself; his happiness was unseemly, almost unbearable. And so was the guilt.

Now, Peter didn’t know what to do. Neal stayed for him. To stay close to him. According to _his wife_ , Neal loved him. And El was okay with him loving Neal.

Something occurs to him and everything comes to a screeching halt. Love – does El truly comprehend that what he felt for Neal was not parental, not fraternal. It’s romantic.

He tracks his wife down in their bedroom. She’s getting ready to leave for an overnight event.

“Hon?”

She kisses him as she passes. “What, sweetie?”

“Umm, about Neal. About what we talked about downstairs.”

El stops her primping and looks at him in the mirror, her face serious. “What?”

Peter licks his lips, his mouth bone dry in his anxiety. “You understand what I feel for him, right?”

“Yes – I do. I’ve understood for a long time.” El goes back to putting on her makeup, seemingly unconcerned.

He needs clarification, he doesn’t want to assume anything. “Neal’s not my brother. He’s not my son.” Peter adds, unnecessarily. “He’s also a man.”

El turns to him, a smile on her lips and a wealth of love in her eyes. “I know, it’s hard to miss. The heavy late-day beard, the broad shoulders and narrow hips. The big schlong.”

“Elizabeth!”

“Come on, hon. That beast is hard to miss in those tight pants he likes. And you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed either.”

Peter swallows, he doesn’t know whether to burst out in hysterical laughter or be outraged that his wife has noticed another man’s penis. And he flushes with embarrassment – not only has he seen Neal’s dick when it’s been covered by expensive wool suiting, or encased in well-worn denim, he’s stood next to him at the urinals in the men’s room at the office. It is…impressive.

She saves him, again. “I know what you mean – you love him like you love me.” Elizabeth’s eyes are glowing sapphires – a sure sign of her happiness; and Peter still can’t get his brain wrapped around the idea that she’s really okay with him acting on those feelings.

“El … I am so afraid of hurting you. Of hurting _us_.”

The amusement left her face, but if anything, her eyes glowed bluer. “Peter, do you love me less for loving him? Would you leave me for Neal?”

He’s shocked at the thought of a life without Elizabeth. “No – no, never. A life without you…” He cups her face between his palms “… is not worth living.” Peter kisses her, the taste of her lush, warm mouth a balm to his turmoil.

She smiles again, against his lips. “If it was anyone but Neal, I wouldn’t feel this way.”

Peter’s puzzled.

“Neal’s been part of our lives for so long – it’s hard to imagine what we’d be without him.” El hugs him tightly. “Go see him today. You need to do this.”

Peter doesn’t want to let go of Elizabeth, but she dances out of his grasp. “Honey, I love you.”

She bops him on the nose. “I love you too, hon.”

Elizabeth leaves him alone in their bedroom, less confused and much less guilty – but still troubled.

 

 **Saturday Afternoon**

 **  
**

NEAL STEPS BACK AND LOOKS AT WHAT HE’S SPENT THE BETTER PART OF THE DAY TRYING TO DO. He’s been at this for weeks now – trying to finish up what the contractors didn’t, and he’s sick and tired of it. The fucking shelves are still crooked and it’s becoming a matter of personal pride. He could call the contractors back, but damn it to hell, this is his place and he’s got the mortgage to prove it. He can crack safes and cut and polish rubies, fake FBI files and forge Monets. He should certainly be able to hang a bunch of shelves.

He sighs and the whole thing falls off the wall. Actually, not so much falls as slides down, tearing plaster and lathe with it.

Not even during his first lonely night in New York City, when he hunkered down with the homeless in the Port Authority bus station, has he wanted to cry like this. Not even when he was stripped of his civilian clothes, subjected to a cavity search and given gray underwear and an orange jumpsuit. Not even close.

Well, maybe close.

He goes for a broom and a dustpan and the contractor-sized garbage pail and wonders why people seem to enjoy this type of work.

“A smart man knows when to ask for help. And you know how much I like smart.”

Neal spins around. “Peter!”

“Hope you don’t mind that I let myself in.” Peter drops a six-pack, a bottle of wine and a bucket of tools on the board and sawhorse setup that was passing as Neal’s work table these days.

“No – not at all. Though at least at June’s you knocked before bursting in.”

“I did – but you didn’t answer.” Peter goes to look at the mess on Neal’s wall and floors. “Since when do you hang shelves with nails? And into plaster walls?”

Neal grits his teeth. “Okay, Bob Vila – maybe you’d like to show me how it’s done?”

Peter just gives him that smug look, the one that always twists his insides. “Help me clean this up and we’ll see what we need to do.”

Once all of the debris is in the trash barrel, Peter pushes him to one side with the instruction to put the beer in the refrigerator. He goes and looks at the pile of scrap lumber and wallboard left from the major renovations, muttering about studs and cripples and other vaguely obscene things.

Neal’s relegated to the task of holding things against the wall, or handing Peter tools like a nurse to a surgeon. He can’t help but admire the way Peter’s arm muscles flex and the way a sheen of perspiration coats his skin and soaks through his shirt.

Neal develops an answering sweat, but he doesn’t think it’s from the hard work.

It doesn’t take long, and the wall is repaired and the shelves properly hung.

They stand in front of their handiwork; Peter’s got his arms folded across his chest and a satisfied look on his face.

“Yeah. Yup. Looks good.” Peter sets the level on the middle shelf and the bubble floats to the middle and stays there.

“You’re awfully proud of yourself.” Neal has to smile; Peter gets the exact same expression on his face when he’s just figured out a case.

“Ummm. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. Feels good. Like riding a bike.”

Neal fetches beers for both of them. Peter’s skill in wine selection hasn’t improved at all. The bottle of red he brought actually has a screw top and Neal wonders if it’s deliberate. “You worked with your dad?”

“Yeah – summers in high school. I ended up doing a lot of finished carpentry. Crown moldings. Cabinetry. Shelves, built-ins.”

Neal watches Peter’s mouth as he takes a sip from the bottle and is unwillingly reminded of the dream he had last night, of Peter sucking on him like he was a longneck. Neal shifts his stance and wills himself not to get an erection. “Did you ever think about following in your father’s footsteps?”

Peter gives him a searching look and Neal mentally kicks himself. This is one of the areas that they’ve tacitly agreed not to talk about.

“My father would have taken a two by four to my ass if I said I wasn’t going to go to college.”

Neal grimaces. He wishes he had someone like that for him … or maybe he does. Sometimes, if he tries really, really hard, he can think of Peter as his father. And then he wants to vomit – because sons shouldn’t want their fathers to suck their cocks or fuck their asses.

They drink in silence.

“Elizabeth has that thing with the Antonellis tomorrow? I think she said she was driving up to Saratoga tonight to oversee the setup, right?”

Peter nods. “On my own again.” He sounds a little mournful. Since their little chat three months ago, Peter frequently snags him for dinner when El is working on the weekends. And for some reason, he usually ends up on Neal’s doorstep with beer and tools, especially now that Neal’s a fellow Brooklynite, and less than five miles away.

Neal gives in – he always does. Peter has this expression that’s a cross between a sleepy lion and a hurt puppy, which he finds irresistible.

“You want to wash up while I get dinner ready?”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Was thinking a stir-fry.” Neal gestures to the fancy restaurant quality range with the dedicated wok burner.

“You have those little mushrooms? The ones shaped like…” Peter cuts himself off at the pass and turns bright red. Neal knew exactly what he was going to say.

“Shaped like little penises?”

“Damn it, Neal.”

Neal nods and he’s left to wonder why Peter’s suddenly embarrassed - he never has been by his own rather earthy sense of humor.

“You can shower if you’d like. I think there’s a clean tee-shirt of yours in the laundry room.” Two months ago, Peter had come over and helped him shift the rest of his stuff out of June’s. There was a brief storm and they were soaked to the skin. To Neal’s quiet delight, Peter stripped his shirt off and borrowed one of Neal’s. Neal hadn’t washed it - just ran it through the dryer. He slept in it for a few weeks, until Peter’s scent was completely lost. Those were the best nights of sleep he’d had in years. He tries not to think about the tee-shirt that Peter’s going to leave behind now.

The object of his attention, his desire, his...love, gives him a slightly bemused look but departs for the bathroom without comment.

Neal hums as he prepares dinner, enjoying the rhythm of cutting up the vegetables, listening to Peter in the shower. Hes completely happy, even though he knows his happiness is built out of feathers and sand.

He chops up onions and garlic and carrots and peppers and indulges in a perfect little domestic fantasy. Peter is his husband, El’s his wife - they have busy careers and it’s his job to take care of them, to make them happy. El comes home and he greets her with a cup of tea and a warm kiss. Peter follows and it’s not hard to see that he’s frazzled from a long, frustrating day. Neal sits him down and takes off his shoes and socks. Elizabeth’s standing behind him, watching him with laser intensity as he begins a massage, working all of the kinks out of Peter’s feet, massaging his calves, his thighs, working his way towards his groin and the massive hard-on building under his fly. El kneels down behind him and starts to undress him, clever hands undoing buttons and belt and magically he’s naked and she’s whispering all sorts of dirty things in his ear about how he needs to service their husband in _all_ ways.

Neal hums an aria from _Carmen_ as he stands at the cutting board, knife in hand and a boner in his pants when he hears Peter come back into the kitchen. He busies himself with the last of the prep.

“How spicy?” He doesn’t turn around. He savors his erection as the last of his fantasy dissipates.

“After four and a half years, you still don’t know I’m not a huge fan of Szechuan?”

Neal smiles. “I keep hoping to educate your palate.”

“I like my palate just fine, thank you very much.”

Neal fires up the wok and makes quick work of the cooking.

They eat in companionable silence, which allows Neal to extend his little fantasy just that much further.

Peter interrupts his castle-building. “If you’d like to take a shower, I’ll do the dishes.”

“Sound’s good - see you in a few minutes.”

“Don’t rush. I can manage this without you.”

It takes all of Neal’s willpower not to give Peter a fond kiss as he walks past him to the bathroom.

Neal doesn’t bother to examine his happiness about finding Peter’s sweaty tee-shirt hanging on the bathroom doorknob. He folds it up and hides it deep in the back of the linen closet.

He takes his time in the shower - it’s a dangerous thing, but he can’t help but imagine Peter’s hands on him, washing him, caring for him. He doesn’t want to wish things were different, but he can’t help but replay the conversation with Elizabeth last night. _You mean the world to Peter – there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. Don’t ever forget that._

Neal thinks of himself as a smart man, and his greatest talent is understanding what people want, particularly from him. Elizabeth and Peter were always a challenge - they never seemed to want anything. Maybe it is because they were the perfectly complete relationship. Peter may worry about forgetting to pick up the dry cleaning, El might be a very indifferent cook, but they provided each other with everything they needed.

He rinsed himself off and despite the warmth of the steam-filled room, he shivered. They were complete - they didn’t need anything from him at all.

Neal dressed and tried not to let his sudden depression show when he joined Peter in the living room. Of course the man had turned on a ball game, but as soon as Neal sat down next to him he turned it off.

“What’s up? Your team’s losing?”

Peter has this odd look in his eyes, one Neal hasn’t seen before.

“Peter?”

“I talked with El this morning. She told me something very interesting.”

Neal smiled and lifted his hands - the patented Caffrey “I’m an innocent man” gesture. “Whatever Elizabeth said I did, I am certain I have an alibi for it.”

The old joke didn’t seem to change a thing in Peter’s strange expression.

“El told me you had a serious job offer from Stuart Gless, and from the Channing Museum. The Powell, too.”

Neal freezes. Where the hell is Peter going with this? “Yeah, I did.”

“And yet you turned them down to stay with the FBI - for a fraction of the salary and even less opportunity. Why?”

This is dangerous territory. Three months ago, when Peter had confronted him about the distance he had put between them, it took a lot of tap dancing to get out of that one. He didn’t outright lie to Peter - he never has done (and will never do) that, but it was the closest he came to it. Thankfully Peter bought his explanation, and Neal decided to let Peter take over his every waking moment. He could sublimate, he could misdirect and he could still live with himself.

But this question - he couldn’t get around the truth. And it is going to kill him.

“Why do you think I stayed with the Bureau, Peter?”

* * *

THERE IS THAT TELL AGAIN. NEAL’S FACE GOES BLANK. Peter almost changes his mind about confronting him, and he knows what he is doing is going to upset their entire relationship. This may wreck it irreparably. Then he remembers all of their confrontations over the years, even the most damaging one - when he accused Neal of running the long con on him, arranging the theft of the Nazi loot. If _they_ could survive that, then they could survive anything.

He is going to go through with this, for better or for worse.

Peter’s careful with his tone. “I’m not sure, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Peter, please.”

It’s like they’re back in the hangar again, before their worlds exploded. “Neal, I need to know.”

“It’s not important. Trust me.”

“If it’s not important, they why won’t you tell me?”

Neal doesn’t answer, he doesn’t look at Peter. This is not like the scene in the hangar at all. Back then, it was only Neal’s freedom at stake. He watches as Neal paces, and he doesn’t say anything.

Neal goes over to the large bank of windows. He’s got another multi-million-dollar view here, just a little more realistic. Peter absently admires how the setting sun gilds him. He’s always been struck by his partner’s sheer physical gifts. If he is a believer, he’d have to say God was very happy the day that Neal was conceived. But it is never just that - and he knows now that even if those gifts had never been given, he’d still feel the same way.

He goes to stand next to him. “Why won’t you tell me?”

Neal doesn’t turn - he stubbornly keeps looking out the window, fixated on the traffic and the river and who knows what else. But he does speak. “Don’t do this. Please, Peter, don’t do this to me.”

It is just like time had been turned back, but instead of an airplane hangar and freedom and poor, doomed Kate waiting for him, it is just the two of them and their whole future.

He utters just one word. “Neal…”

It’s a trigger or the point of explosion or a tipping point.

“What do you want to hear, Peter? Do you want to hear that no matter what, I wasn’t going to let go of you? That you mean more to me than anyone or anything? That I’ve changed my whole life for you, I’ve become something else because of you? Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes.” Peter answers with absolute honesty and is shocked when Neal draws back as if he were slapped.

“You can’t want that, Peter. No, that’s not possible.”

“I want you to tell me the truth - no lies, no misdirections, no false trails. Why did you stay at the Bureau?”

Neal looks at him, and there’s something that looks like hatred in his eyes. “I stayed because I didn’t want to be parted from you. Because I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing you everyday, not having you in my life, not being part of your life. I should have run when I had the chance, you know. I should have walked away instead of putting both of us through this shaming hell.”

He reaches out to Neal, but the other man throws his hand off and goes back to the living room. He sinks into a chair and buries his face in his hands.

He sits down next to him. “Neal - I don’t want to hurt you - after everything, you have to know that.” Neal doesn’t answer, but his shoulders are shaking. Peter wonders if Neal’s crying, and he regrets starting this. It isn’t worth the pain.

Neal isn’t crying - not exactly. He’s shaking with near-hysterical laughter. “You’re a master, Peter. You know how to use my own weaknesses against me. I’m like a violin and you’re a virtuoso.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know I won’t lie to you. You know that if you press me, if you ask the right questions, you are going to get me to tell you what I don’t want to tell you. You don’t even have to throw your badge on the table.”

It’s Peter’s turn to be shocked. “I think you overestimate my powers.”

Neal shakes his head. “No, I don’t think that’s possible. You just very gently extracted my deepest, darkest secrets.” He licks his lips. “With everything we’ve been through together, do you know when I came closest to lying to you outright? In all our time together - with everything between us?”

Peter doesn’t have a clue, and he feels he should. Neal doesn’t answer, but keeps looking right at him, willing him to figure it out. Then everything clicks into place.

“Three months ago - when I asked you why you were avoiding me.” He sucks in his breath. “You really didn’t think I was asking for your company out of pity.”

Neal gazes at his fingers intently, as if they contained the secrets of the universe. “I had convinced myself of that - so it wasn’t an outright lie, at least in the daylight. During the nights, when I was alone and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about you, I knew it was a lie.” Neal looks at him again, and Peter’s mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze. “I knew that I needed to avoid being alone with you, that I needed to protect myself, protect my sanity. Protect you.”

“Protect me?”

Neal closes his eyes briefly, “Every relationship I’ve had has ended disastrously.” He ticks off Kate and Alex and Sara. “And to even entertain the thought of any type of relationship with you - other than an arms-length friendship, a working relationship, is the slipperiest of slopes.” Neal pinches the bridge of his nose. “Therein lies madness.”

“So you told yourself that I was only taking pity on you.”

“Repeat a lie often enough at it begins to sound like the truth. That’s something I’ve known for most of my life.”

“But it never really is the truth, is it?” He gives Neal a bitter smile. “I’ve been telling myself lies for years now.”

“What?”

“You’re not the only one who is good at self-delusion.”

“What are you saying, Peter?

“I tell myself, ‘Neal’s my annoying baby brother.’ Or that you’re my son. That my emotions are anything but romantic. That I want only what’s best for you, and staying with the FBI is what’s best. It’s what will keep you on the straight and narrow. You aren’t going to end up back in jail if you stay with the Bureau. _With me_ ”

Peter can’t keep still. Even though he came over to see Neal today for the expressed purpose of getting this out into the open, he’s wondering if this is going to be the worst decision of his life. But he can’t go back now, and unlike Neal, he can’t dance around the truth and tell himself he’s not lying. Not anymore.

“No, Peter. Don’t do this.” Neal’s pleading again. “Think of everything in your life that matters. Your honor, your reputation. _Elizabeth_. Think about her - the woman you love. She is the single most important thing in your life. Don’t destroy that.”

Peter sits back down and smiles. Grins actually. “You are a good man, Neal Caffrey. And I never want to hear you say differently.”

He’s rewarded with a completely puzzled look.

“Neal, that is the loveliest and most unselfish thing I’ve ever heard you say. But do you really think I’d be here if I hadn’t gotten a great big push?”

“Elizabeth?”

He nods. “She gave me my marching orders.”

“She told you to come here?”

“Exactly.”

At Neal’s very skeptical look, Peter sighs in exasperation. “I can call and let you talk to her. Will that make you feel any better?”

Peter doesn’t wait for Neal to answer, he calls his wife and hands the phone to Neal.

Neal takes it and walks across the room, out of earshot. Peter watches Neal pace in front of a now-darkened cityscape. They talk for at least ten minutes before Neal comes back and hands the phone to him.

He follows Neal’s path to the wall of windows and takes a few minutes to chat in private with his wife.

“He’s pretty freaked out, hon.”

She doesn’t give him any slack. “Are you surprised?”

“No, not really. It’s not like I haven’t gone through the same emotions myself.”

“You okay?” There’s a little static on the line, but Peter can’t mistake his wife’s concern.

“Yeah, hon. I’m fine. You okay?” He isn’t asking her how she is feeling.

“Peter, I am still fine, still okay. The same as I was this morning and last night and the same as I’ve been for the last four years.”

Peter looks across the room at Neal, who may have been a statue for how still he held himself.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Don’t ever forget that.” Her words are a command that would never be disobeyed. Peter ends the call.

Neal joins him at the windows and gives a small chuckle, “Elizabeth Burke, _dea ex machina_.”

Peter chuckles, then looks seriously at him. “You okay now?”

“Okay? I don’t think I know the meaning of that word anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again.”

“What did Elizabeth tell you?”

Neal gives him a speaking look. “She told me that …” He laughs. “Never to underestimate your capacity for love.”

Peter watches a blush slowly rise from Neal’s throat, up his cheeks and disappear into his hairline. He’s delighted and a little enthralled.

“We haven’t used that word, you know.” Neal sniffs and Peter can see the last of his reserves crumble.

“Do you want me to say it first?”

Peter steps forward, moving deep into Neal’s personal space and takes the initiative. He reaches up and brushes a hand against his jaw. “I love you, Neal. I have for a very long time.”

Neal’s eyes close, the ridiculously long lashes lay shadows against his cheeks. When he opens them, Peter feels like he’s going to drown in their blueness.

Neal takes a deep breath and gives him the same honesty. “I love you too, Peter. It’s hard to remember a time when I haven’t. And if we screw this up, my life is not going to be worth living.”

Peter shivers as Neal echoes his words to El. How did he become the pivot point for the lives of these two people? He looks deep into Neal’s face, there’s no guile, no sadness, no lingering shadows.

“Now what?”

Neal smiles - not the con man’s grin, not the full-on Caffrey that everyone but him finds so delightful. This is the sweet, unselfconscious smile, the rarest of them all.

“Kiss me.”

Peter’s hit with an attack of butterflies. He’s never kissed a man before; not with romantic or with sexual intent. What if he screws this up?

Neal’s fingers slide up his arms, over his shoulders. They thread through his hair and his scalp tingles, his whole body becomes a mass of gooseflesh. His own hands, in mindless mimicry, cup Neal’s skull, and bring him close.

 _This is just like kissing a woman._

Peter brushes his lips against Neal’s, softly. He discovers it’s the same physical process, but kissing Neal is nothing like kissing a woman. Neal’s lips are narrow, not pillowy, and instead of smooth, silken skin, his late day beard is rough, a completely different texture and he wonders, he anticipates how that is going to feel on his body. Peter presses harder, and Neal’s mouth opens under his, and the feel of his submission is heady. But Neal’s not giving in as much as letting him in.

He touches his tongue to Neal’s tongue - the other man tastes like beer and Chinese five-spice and a lingering tang of toothpaste. He tastes familiar, and yet like nothing else that Peter’s ever tasted. It’s heady and exciting, and he feels powerful as Neal clutches at his shoulders. He pushes Neal back against the windows, devouring him. He presses against him, and instead of soft breasts and wide, welcoming hips, a tumescent cock brushes up against his own massive erection and he pulls back, startled and completely overwhelmed by what he’s done, what he’s going to do.

 

NEAL CAN’T QUITE BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING. Peter’s hands in his hair, his mouth on his. _His mouth. God - his mouth._ He’s been dreaming of Peter’s mouth, his taste, his strength, for a decade and this is so much better than his dreams.

And it’s not just lust - it’s not just an act of feral copulation, coerced and teased out of Peter - married and faithful Peter. No, this is love, in its most perfect, purest form.

Peter’s lips are hot, damp, firm and commanding, and it’s all that Neal can do not to swoon like some 1930’s movie heroine. Peter’s taken him over, captured him, made him his in every single way. Neal opens up, to breathe, to moan, to sigh Peter’s name and his tongue invades, strong, demanding compliance. He capitulates, there are no terms of surrender to negotiate. He’s always been Peter’s, whatever the man may want of him - however much, however little.

Peter presses him back against the wall of glass and Neal undulates against him, reveling in his heat, the massive erection that brushes against his own, and he wants to sob with joy. That is all for him, love and lust and desire, it’s mutual.

When Peter pulls back, the distance between them is a shock to his system.

“What … what’s the matter?”

Peter runs a hand through his hair and Neal can see that he’s trembling.

He wonders if Peter’s regretting this, if he doesn’t feel what Neal feels. If this isn’t _really_ what he wants, but the bulge distending his fly is practically obscene. No, not practically. Neal forces himself to look up at Peter’s face. “Peter?”

“I …” Peter blushes bright red and something dawns on Neal.

“You’ve never been with a man before?”

If anything, Peter’s cheeks burned brighter. “Have you?”

“Peter!” Neal doesn’t know whether to be outraged or amused. “You knew my shoe size when you where chasing after me.”

Peter gives him a sharp look. “You’re not gay.” Neal can read Peter’s next thought before it comes out of his mouth. “You and Mozzie?”

“Yeah, and a few others.”

“Keller?”

Neal’s eyes go flat and he doesn’t answer. His silence is answer enough. He doesn’t like to think what went on between Matthew and him. Ever. It was not a good time in his life.

“You and Mozzie - there’s not still a thing going on between you?”

Neal likes the thread of jealousy in Peter’s tone, but he doesn’t indulge himself by drawing it out. “No, Peter. Not since before you arrested me. Mozzie moved on, so did I.”

“Because of Kate?”

Neal tries to keep his tone light. “Peter - I can appreciate that you’d like to know my sexual history - but I don’t think this is the time to go into my emotional one.”

He is gratified when Peter gives him an abashed apology. He isn’t prepared for the next question, though.

“Prison - were you okay?”

He sucks in his breath. “Peter - it’s been almost five years since I’ve been out. That’s the past - the very distant past.”

Peter’s clearly shaken by what Neal refuses to tell him, and Neal runs a hand down the side of his face, coming to rest on his shoulder. He gives him a comforting squeeze. “Peter - forget about it, I have. And you don’t have to ask - I’m clean. I’ve been getting tested every six months since I was released.”

Peter nods, but Neal knows that he’s not going to forget it, and they are going to have to talk about it sometime soon.

There’s a little awkwardness now between them, and Neal wants to ease Peter’s tension.

“So, Peter - you love me, even though I’ve got a cock and balls?”

That gets a smile out of him. “You’re a shit, Caffrey...you know that.”

Neal can’t resist, he flutters his eyelashes at Peter. “But you love me anyway?” God, that feels so good to say. It’s so casual, so easy and it rocks him to his soul.

Peter hauls him close again. “Yes, and you are still a shit. And I love you.” He runs his thumb against Neal’s mouth and he opens his lips and sucks lightly on it. Peter’s shudder of desire sends an answering surge in him and he rocks his hips against Peter.

This time, Peter doesn’t seem to be freaked out by the touch of another man’s cock and Neal continues to roll his hips against him. Peter responds and Neal nips at the pad of Peter’s thumb before sucking hard. Peter tries to pull his thumb out of his mouth, but Neal doesn’t let go easily, he’s giving Peter a taste of what it’s going to be like when Neal gets his mouth on Peter’s cock.

He rubs up against Peter again and again, enjoying the friction of the hard denim fabric, his zipper and Peter’s button down fly against his aching cock. It’s been so damn long. He finally allows Peter to extract his thumb and he reaches up to kiss him again.

Peter whispers, “You are going to drive me crazy, you know that?”

Neal can’t stop his moan when Peter licks a dirty, wet stripe from chin to earlobe. Damn, Peter knew exactly what buttons he needed to push. When Peter nips his earlobe, his knees just about give out from under him and if he wasn’t leaning against the window, he’d have collapsed in a puddle of desire.

“For someone who’s never been with a man, you certainly seem to know what you’re doing.” Neal tries to recover himself, shoving a thigh between Peter’s legs. It was a little awkward, though, Peter is just too tall and too big. And he so easily turns the tables on Neal, pushing his own thigh up his crotch. Neal almost comes in his pants.

Peter kisses him again, but it’s not a deeply sexual kiss. It’s a little sweet and almost tentative.

Neal looks up at Peter, surprised at the bemused expression on his face.

“Problems?”

Peter smiles. “No, just that it’s so hard…” He stops and bites his lip.

Neal chuckles at the double entendre. “Other than the obvious, what’s hard?”

“It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve wanted you for so long, and you’re here in my arms now.” Peter gives him that beautiful, rueful smile.

“I know.” It does feel almost unreal. He has dreamed of this for so long, he can’t remember a time when he hasn’t.

He bites his lip and asks a question that may be a serious mood killer. “Have you and El ever?” Neal can’t bring himself to completely verbalize his question.

Either Peter’s teasing him, or he’s just a little dense. “Have we ever what?”

Neal bites the bullet. “Anal sex. Have you and El ever done it?”

Peter raises his eyebrows, and Neal wonders if he’s gone a bit too far.

“Are you asking me if El’s ever had my ass or if I’ve had hers?”

Actually, the first question hadn’t ever occurred to him. “I just wanted to know if you know what to do.”

Peter grins and Neal’s relieved - he hadn’t caused any offense. He knows he probably shouldn’t worry, but everything is so new.

“No - that’s not something El has ever asked for. And I’d be a little afraid of hurting her.”

Neal’s lips twitch and he strokes a hand down Peter’s crotch. “Is it something you think you’d like?”

“Getting or receiving?”

Neal shakes his head and doesn’t even try to control his laughter. “Peter - let’s get one thing straight…”

Peter snorts at the word and it’s all Neal can do not to slap him upside the head. “What are you, twelve?”

“Okay, okay. You wanted to get something straight?”

“Yeah. I’m a bottom, Peter. It’s how I am - I mean, if you want to bottom, I can try for you.” When Peter doesn’t say anything, Neal just plunges forward. “I love you - hell, I’ve practically remade myself in your image. I can learn to give that too.”

Peter still says nothing, but he hauls him close and kisses him. “Neal - as proud as I am of you, I don’t think that much of a change is necessary. I just hadn’t given that much of a thought. I guess I sort of naturally assumed that I’d be … on top.”

Peter is blushing again, and Neal finds he loves him even more. “But you’d be willing to take some instruction, right? It’s really not the same as with a woman - the anatomy is … different.”

“Well, I suppose I can do some research.” Peter winks at him. “I understand that there’s some stuff on the Internet.”

Neal wants to smack him again, but he resists. “I don’t think we need the Internet. Unless you get off on that kind of thing.”

“El and I…” Peter stops and bites his lip. “It’s kind of weird, you know. Talking about what El and I do.”

“Awkward, Agent Burke? If I recall correctly, you were a breath’s pause away from telling me what El liked sexually within the first twenty-four hours of our professional relationship.” Neal pulls Peter away from the windows. He likes that Peter’s hands were a little sweaty, he is nervous – just like Neal. “Come on, let’s not give the Manhattanites with their telescopes a free show.”

It doesn’t take much to lead Peter into the bedroom and to Neal’s big bed. He’d been optimistic when he bought it. It is a California King, but Moz called it “orgy-sized.” Peter just lifts an eyebrow, and Neal bites his lower lip.

“You’re really too adorable when you blush.”

Neal’s a little taken aback by Peter’s flirtatious words and the sort of growly arousal that he hasn’t expected to hear outside of his dreams. He doesn’t quite know how to respond. He just licks his lips instead, and is rewarded when Peter’s breath hitches.

“Can I kiss you?” Neal doesn’t know why he’s asking. He never has with any of his other lovers.

Peter blinks at him. “For a man who’s lived by ‘see - want - take’ for all of his life, you really need to ask if you can kiss me?”

It’s Neal’s turn to blink, to be a little embarrassed. He bites his lip. “Do you have any idea how terrified I am - of wrecking this before it even begins? I mean, you’ve never been with another man - I don’t want to spook you or do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

“Neal…”

Peter strokes his cheek and cups his face and it’s all that Neal can do not to turn into that large, warm palm and kiss it. And then he realizes that there’s no reason not to. Peter’s skin is a little salty, and he licks it like a cat. He can feel Peter’s pulse start to race and he looks up.

Peter repeats himself. “Neal - I’m just as nervous as you are. I’m terrified too – I don’t know what I’m doing but I know I want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time. It scared the shit out of me – I’d dream about this beautiful man … ”

Neal is delighted. “You dreamed about me?”

“Yeah, you little narcissist. You hand me a lime green sucker, smile like you’re as blameless as a newborn babe and waltz away, and you don’t think I dream about you?”

The thought of Peter thinking about him like that, as far back as their first meeting does something to Neal. To know that Peter has been obsessed by him as long as he has been by Peter somehow makes all this waiting and longing, all the pain and frustration worth it. He surges up against Peter, pushing him down on the bed, his hands are going everywhere because he needs skin the way he needs oxygen.

His urgency is contagious and he tries not be distracted as Peter’s big hands tug and pull at his shirt, and suddenly they are both naked from the waist up. That is okay for the moment - he wants to explore Peter - to learn him the way a blind man learns another’s face. Peter pushes back, unwilling to surrender and Neal understands, but he doesn’t give into the masterful streak that is as much a part of Peter as his brown eyes and his innate sense of decency.

“Please, let me - just let me.” Neal knows he’s a little incoherent, but Peter relaxes and smiles at him.

“Go ahead.” He’s like a pasha, leaning back against the mass of pillows, his arms above his head, and Neal swears that Peter knows exactly what he looks like.

“I want to touch you, I want to know you.” Neal runs a finger from Peter’s jaw to his neck and comes to rest at the base of his throat, and he feels Peter’s pulse jump. The throbbing under his finger is as arousing as a kiss, and he lingers there, petting and stroking and finally pressing his lips against the pulse point.

Neal’s mouth doesn’t stay on Peter’s skin, but his fingers do. Just his fingertips, seeking out the sensitive places, the fold of skin where chest meets shoulder meets armpit, and Neal doesn’t hesitate to follow the line and he traces the path of the hair that’s curled in dampness. Despite his recent shower, Neal can smell Peter's natural musk - clean and healthy and he doesn’t resist the impulse to bury his face in Peter’s armpit and breathe deeply.

Their bodies are intertwined, Neal has a leg between Peter’s, and he’s riding Peter’s thigh again. It’s a slow ride though, a gentle trot, and the pressure of Peter’s rock-hard thigh against his groin is a bearable pain - it keeps him from going over the edge too quickly.

Neal savors the feel of Peter’s skin - like velvet over steel - a smooth chest with just a few fine curls around his nipples. He is still just using his fingertips, but Peter seems to be getting impatient. Neal ignores that and continues to explore like a blind man. He finally lets himself touch Peter’s nipples - they are tight, hard like pebbles, and Neal keeps his eyes on Peter’s face as he pinches them.

“Do you like that?” Peter doesn’t answer. He pinches them again, and Peter hisses. Neal repeats the question. “Do you like that?”

Peter finally answers with a hiss. “Yes, don’t stop.”

Neal smiles - he has to. “Why are you so stubborn?”

Peter shakes his head and just closes his eyes. Neal is stunned by the beauty of the image - Peter laying there, acquiescent, willing - not submissive - just dormant. Like a resting tiger, or maybe a wolf waiting for his prey in the shadowed forest. Neal knows that this won’t last much longer, so he takes full advantage of the moment.

He climbs over Peter, surrounding him like a cage and presses a soft kiss against his lips - Peter remains passive, so he deepens it, biting softly at his lower lip. Just as Peter begins to respond with a low growl, Neal lets go and kisses his chin, licking at the late day beard, delighting in the roughness of it against his tongue. When Peter lifts his head, Neal can’t help but feel like he’s a big cat and Peter’s his prey. He bites down gently - hard enough to mark, but not hard enough to bruise. He’s rewarded when Peter’s hips surge up.

Neal tongue lingers at the mole at the base of Peter’s throat, then moves down, licking at Peter’s swollen nipples before working his way down to his abdomen. He grips Peter’s ribs firmly, holding him in place while he teases at his navel, licking just the rim with his tongue.

Peter moans and Neal looks up. Peter’s panting slightly.

“I’m going to do that to your ass some day.”

The sound that comes out of Peter’s mouth is a cross between a moan and a small scream. Neal smiles and goes back to work on Peter’s navel, fucking it with his tongue, toying with it, torturing it.

He senses that Peter’s about to go over the edge or maybe it’s the way the damp spot on the front of his jeans is so rapidly growing. It takes some effort, but he gets the first button opened, and then the second. He has to struggle with the rest, but Peter gives him a hand, literally - shoving his right hand down his fly, pressing his cock down. Neal’s finally able to rip open the rest of his fly, but Peter keeps his hand there, an oddly protective gesture - until he starts stroking himself under his boxers.

Neal watches Peter’s hand move for a few moments, unbearably aroused, before he pulls off Peter’s shorts. He’s seen it before – in the men’s room, of course. Once, most memorably in motel room they had shared during a stakeout. But never aroused.

Neal presses a kiss against the back of the hand that’s still stroking. “Come on, let me see all of it.”

Peter lets his hand fall to his hip and Neal gasps. He knew Peter was a big man, but this was unexpected.

“You are a beast.” Neal hadn’t intended to vocalize that thought. “Now I know why you dominate every room you walk into.”

Peter chuckles weakly. “Very funny, Caffrey.”

“I’m not joking. How do you manage to stand upright?”

Peter shifts a leg and brings it tight up against his own tumescent prick, making Neal ride his thigh again.

“I’ve seen that monster in _your_ pants, Neal – and all I can say is I know why you wear a size 13 shoe. If you didn’t, you’d fall over.

Neal ignores him, this isn’t the time for repartee. He breathes over Peter’s cock, and the warm stream of breath arouses him further, his balls begin to draw up tight and another drop of precome pearls through his slit. Neal licks a single strip with the flat of his tongue, from base to tip, and then back down.

Peter moans as Neal licks his balls, takes one, then the other into his mouth, laving it with his tongue before letting them slide out with a wet pop. Peter’s so wound up that Neal knows it’s not going to take much to bring him off. He licks him again, teasing along the big vein, under the hood, dipping into his leaking slit before engulfing the head with his mouth.

He holds Peter down at his hips, refusing to let him surge up, into his mouth. There’s an art to this, and Neal doesn’t have to forge or fake anything. His throat is relaxed, his mouth filled with saliva as he swallows Peter down, almost all the way down. He’s always loved this, he has the skill and knows the timing needed to bring maximum pleasure to his partners, but Peter is so big, his desire is so urgent that it takes all his strength to control him.

When Peter’s hands grasp his head, his nail scraping against his scalp, Neal almost loses it. Everyone has a private erogenous zone, and this is his. He doesn’t quite block out the sensation of Peter’s fingers in his hair, but he forces himself to concentrate on the feel of the hammer-like dick in his mouth. He slides up, just barely keeping the head in his mouth, and then almost all of the way down again. Neal can feel the pulse beating in the big veins against his lips, and he swallows the precome that’s continuously leaking. He goes up and down one more time before he lets go of Peter’s hips, cupping his hands around his cock.

Neal’s not quite sure what triggers Peter’s orgasm, but he’s coming, filling his mouth with sweet-bitter semen. He swallows until he can’t anymore; finally letting Peter’s cock slide all of the way out of his mouth. Neal looks up, Peter’s dazed, wrecked, there are tears streaming out of his closed eyes. He can’t tell if Peter is just panting or if he’s sobbing.

Neal swallows again, licks his lips and climbs back up Peter’s body, until they are face to face.

He brushes his hand against Peter’s damp cheek, gently against his forehead, tangling a little in his sweat-soaked hair. Peter is crying. “What’s the matter?” Neal’s getting upset, too. Did he do something wrong, something Peter didn’t want?

He opens his eyes and looks at Neal – the usually sparkling brown almost completely taken over by his blown pupils. “You are … you are just …”

Whatever Peter is going to say is lost when he rolls over Neal and kisses him as if the world is about to end. Or maybe as if the world has ended and is just reborn.

 

PETER ISN’T SURE HE IS STILL ALIVE, EXCEPT THAT IT SHOULDN’T FEEL THIS GOOD TO BE DEAD. The orgasm that Neal pulled out of him is devastating - but it is more than mechanics, more than the feel of a skilled mouth on his cock. It is the absolute intimacy of the act that wrecks him. He never imagined this, not really. He has dreamed about Neal for years, dreamed of their physical closeness, dreamed of sex - but not of this. He’s awed by it.

When he opens his eyes, he’s looking right into Neal’s - and he’s drowning in their blueness. He tries to verbalize his feelings, but he can’t make the words come out. He can see Neal’s worried - he tries to tell him it’s okay, but all he can think is that he has to kiss Neal - that he has to crawl into his skin, give him back at least some of the pleasure he had just received.

He kisses Neal, tasting himself on Neal’s lips, on his tongue, in his mouth and he feels himself hardening again. There is such an urgency to impress himself on Neal, to burn himself into the other man’s soul, and he’s so surprised at the thought, he stops and raises up on his forearms.

Neal threads a hand through his hair, trying to bring him back into their kiss, but he doesn’t let him.

“Peter?”

This time, he can find the words. “You’re mine. You get that? Not for now, not for four years. You’re mine forever - wherever you go, whatever you do, you’re mine.” Peter’s stunned by his own words, the burning thread of jealousy.

Neal doesn’t say anything and Peter thinks he’s gone too far, that this is too much. He opens his mouth to retract, to apologize, but Neal puts a hand over his mouth and gives him a small smile that almost breaks his heart.

“I always have been.” The words are simple and stark. “That will never change.”

Peter finally understands what he has cost Neal, who doesn’t ask for such a return vow.

They remain like this for a heartbeat, then another. Peter kisses Neal’s fingers and then rests his head against Neal’s before whispering, “I love you.”

He wonders where all this emotion has come from - maybe it’s all the years of longing and desire and denial. But it doesn’t matter. He takes Neal’s mouth again and he’s not gentle, but Neal doesn’t seem to mind. He opens up to Peter’s tongue, he gives himself over the same way that Peter himself had done before, and it’s now his turn to learn, to explore his lover’s body.

Peter doesn’t mimic, doesn’t replicate Neal’s actions - he’s not that patient. Instead, he sweeps his hands over Neal’s chest, pinching and pulling at his nipples before biting them. When Neal thrashes, he just holds him down and lets those bites become kisses, and then he runs his stubbled cheek against the tender flesh, enjoying the way the puckered skin reacts.

He doesn’t linger, though. He wants to see it. He wants to touch it, and yes, he wants to put his mouth on it. On Neal’s cock. He doesn’t even have to think twice about it - what it means. This is where he wants to be, what he wants to do. And still, he fumbles with the button and the zipper - his hands are shaking.

“Peter - you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

Neal brushes his hands away and undoes his jeans, pushing them down with his briefs.

Peter is awed. He blinks.

“Second thoughts?”

He can’t answer.

Neal scrambles out of his pants.

“It’s okay - we don’t have to do everything tonight.”

Peter nods, he hears Neal’s voice as from a distance. _Yeah - okay. Not tonight._ But he can’t take his eyes off of Neal’s cock. He had joked earlier about Neal’s “monster” - but this was...prodigious. A little frightening.

“Come here.”

Peter finally drags his eyes away and looks back at Neal’s face. He’s smiling again and Peter’s oddly relieved.

“We’ve got time, right?”

Peter nods and smiles back. “Yeah - plenty of time.”

“Let’s not rush this.”

He looks back down at Neal’s cock, straining upwards but brought down by its own weight. Peter swallows. He wants it but…

“Peter, don’t worry.” Neal reaches into his bedside drawer and comes up with a bottle of something. “Do you want to touch me?”

His eyes fly back up to Neal’s face and he grins. “Yeah, hell yeah.”

“This is lube.”

“I know what that is.”

“Have you ever used it?”

Truthfully, he hasn’t - he and El (and he really doesn’t even feel any discomfort at the thought of his wife) never need it. He shakes his head no.

“It makes things go a lot easier - and when you and I…” It’s Neal’s turn to blush and trail off.

“When we fuck.” Peter takes a certain pride in using that word.

“Yes, Peter.” Neal kisses him. “When we fuck, I’m going to need a lot of it.”

“Are we going to fuck now?” It seems a strange thing to ask.

Neal kisses him and those urgent feelings of dominance return. He wants to push him back onto the bed, he wants to come over him, mark him, take him. Neal pushes back, and pulls away.

“No - I don’t think either of us is ready for that yet. But I’d like to feel you against me.” Neal takes his hand and squirts some of the lube into his palm. “Put this on me, please.”

It is the “please” that gets to him, it’s more than a simple courtesy - it’s something intrinsic to this relationship. And it fills a need in Peter that he doesn’t know he has, and it makes him absolutely, utterly fearless.

He grasps Neal’s cock with his slick-filled palm, wondering at the heat, the throbbing mass. He has never held another man’s penis, but he knows what _he_ likes, and he strokes Neal, once, twice, a third time. He had to admit that the lube makes it nice - the glide and push and pull. Neal’s cock feels lush, precious, weighty. He runs the edge of his thumb over the high crest, across the weeping slit.

Neal shudders, the motion echoing down his body, through the connection of fingers and palm and wrist.

“Do you like this?” Peter stops.

“Yes, please. Don’t stop. Please.”

He teases Neal a little, making a loose circle of his palm and fingers, but Neal’s so thick that it’s difficult to keep an open grasp on him. He adds a twist to his wrist, and Neal’s hips arch.

It’s such a joy to watch Neal writhe and Peter keeps stroking, spreading out the precome that’s mixing with the lube.

Neal reaches for him. “I want to hold you too.”

“No.” Peter pushes his hand away, he doesn’t want Neal to distract him.

“Please.”

Neal’s begging is almost as potent as his kisses, but Peter resists. “This is about you - I want to pleasure you.”

Neal grabs his head and hauls him close for a kiss. When they break apart, Neal looks drugged, his face is completely flushed, his eyes wide and unfocused and he’s almost slurring his words. “Just this is pleasure enough.”

It’s not - not for Peter. He flips Neal onto his side and spoons against him. The position has the unintentional effect of giving his cock a place to nestle - against Neal’s ass. And his cock seems to like being there. Peter ignores the new pleasure and wraps his hand around Neal’s penis and cradles his chest with his other arm. He likes this position, he can rest his head on Neal’s shoulder, and even though they don’t have eye contact, he’s as close as he can get.

“You okay?”

Neal nods. “Just don’t stop.”

Peter nuzzles at the sweet spot where Neal’s neck meets his shoulder, licking at the sweat there. Neal tastes good- different, yes, but good. He rubs his cheek against the skin - something he’d never do with El - but Neal likes it and he repeats the gesture.

His right hand continues to stroke Neal’s cock, and his hips begin to jerk in time with the pull and push, urging him faster. Peter watches in fascination as Neal begins to come, his semen erupting like a white fountain over his fist and across his belly. Peter keeps stroking until nothing is left. And then he can’t help himself, bringing his fingers to his mouth and tasting Neal. It’s salty and bitter - unfamiliar but not unpleasant. He keeps licking until his fingers are clean.

Neal rolls over and looks at him. There is a grave expression in his eyes - he looks like what Peter had felt like after Neal had sucked him.

He brushes the curls off of Neal’s forehead.

Neal speaks first. “I love you.” He kisses him, there’s desperation there, a need for reassurance that Peter understands.

He turns Neal around and holds him close, tucking his head into his shoulder. Neal’s shaking and he feels the same way.

“I’m sorry.”

“No don’t be. It’s all right.” Peter brushes a soft kiss against Neal’s cheek and repeats the reassurance.

“You’re not going anywhere?” Neal clutches him.

“No.” He’s a little stunned by the neediness in Neal’s voice, but he does feel the same way. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Before he closes his eyes, Peter spares a loving thought for El, who won’t be home until tomorrow night. He doesn’t have one for Satchmo - his neighbors are watching the dog. He and El both have such irregular schedules that they frequently have asked the young couple who live next door to watch him.

 

* * *

 **Sunday Morning**

 **  
**

NEAL’S WOKEN BY THE UNFAMILIAR HEAT SOURCE WRAPPED AROUND HIM. He’s not quite sure where he is, but he’s not frightened, this disconnected feeling is an old friend. He groggily tries to remember if he’s in Budapest or Bratislava, and who the hell is in bed next to him, when the sleepy mutterings from the body next to him snap Neal to complete wakefulness. He’s not in Hungary, he’s not in Slovakia. He’s in Brooklyn, and it’s Peter next to him.

Suddenly, it’s like his birthday and Christmas morning rolled into one. He eases out of Peter’s arms, uses the bathroom and washes up. Neal climbs back into bed and he wants to shake Peter until he wakes. He wants to share this perfect moment with him. But he hesitates - not that he’s unsure of Peter’s reaction. No, Peter made his feelings very clear last night, and as certain as the rising sun, Peter will have no doubts, no recriminations when he wakes. He’s committed himself and he’ll never pull back.

Neal hesitates because there is only going to be one first morning. Every morning after this one will be different. He wants to capture it - something to remember, something to share with Peter - to share with Elizabeth. Careful not to wake Peter, Neal reaches into the bedside drawer and pulls out a sketchpad and pencil. The dawn light streaming through the bank of windows is as perfect a light as Neal could ever want, it lovingly gilds Peter. The way the sheet is wrapped around his hips and legs, the light caressing the dips and curves of Peter’s sleeping body, Neal is reminded of the _Ignudi_ , those beautiful and inexplicable nudes on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

He sketches, racing against the light as it travels across Peter’s body, as it begins to burn into his eyes. The last line is down as his lover stirs and wakens.

As Peter opens is eyes, Neal tosses down the pad and greets him.

“Morning.”

Peter smiles. “It wasn’t a dream, then.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Neal watches as Peter closes his eyes again, but the smile remains. Neal strokes his hand down Peter’s chest, his hand stopping just short of Peter’s impressive morning erection.

“Caffrey.”

Neal smiles. “Morning, Peter.” He loves the way Peter grumbles his name, and thinks that he could wake up every morning to that sound.

“Are you drawing me?” He still hasn't opened his eyes.

“Hmmmm, finished. I think you must have modeled for Michelangelo.”

Peter opens one eye, and then the other. Neal can’t stop grinning.

“You’re crazy.”

“No, just honest.”

They stay there - Neal sitting Indian-style, Peter supine, barely wrapped in soft, well washed cotton.

“Do you want to get up?”

“Not sure.”

Someone’s stomach rumbles. It’s Peter’s.

“I’ll feed you.”

That seemed to be motivation enough to get Peter out of bed. Neal can’t help but admire the view as he walks to the bathroom, completely unselfconsciously. _That is one fine ass, Mr. Burke._

Neal puts on a pair of sleep pants and makes his way into the kitchen. The dishes from last night’s dinner are in the drying rack.

He looks at them, bemused.

Last night, that might have been another century, another life. Didn’t he stand here, less than twelve hours ago, chopping vegetables and enjoying his impossible domestic fantasy while Peter was in the shower? He feels a little strange, a little lost. Peter’s in the shower again, he’s cooking for Peter again, but now everything is different.

There’s no fantasy running through his brain this time as he pulls out the eggs and the bread and sets up the espresso machine, because his actions feel like pure fantasy. He’s just woken up next to Peter, he’s cooking breakfast for Peter, making him coffee.

Neal stares at the carton of eggs, at the loaf of bread - he’s oddly paralyzed. It’s like he’s caught in a stereopticon. His brain is trying to reconcile two nearly identical images and it simply short circuits.

Fuck breakfast...I want a shower.

 

IT SHOULD DEFINITELY FEEL WEIRD WAKING UP NAKED AND NEXT TO SOMEONE THAT ISN’T ELIZABETH. But then, he’s waking up next to Neal, and that isn’t strange at all. No, there is nothing strange about Neal sitting on the bed, sketching him as he sleeps.

That’s Neal. And it somehow seems perfect.

There’s also no morning after awkwardness. He thought there might be, he thought he might feel different. But he doesn’t. This morning feels as right and as normal as last night did. There are no lingering doubts – not about what he feels, not about what Neal feels.

He gets up, like he’d get up any morning, ignoring the wood. Though he wouldn’t mind doing something with it - he never does - but he’s not sure what, and he’s also a little embarrassed by it, though he doesn’t let it show.

Neal promises breakfast, and he needs a shower. Neal probably needs one too. Peter wonders if he should ask him to share one. That seems a bit much. He doesn’t mind taking things slowly now. They’ve got time.

He loves Neal’s new bathroom. It’s big. It’s almost as big as his bedroom at home. There’s a soaker tub large enough for three, a shower with space enough for three, and not one, not two - but three sinks. It’s his fantasy of a bathroom - it can accommodate Neal and him and …

Elizabeth.

The bathroom door opens and Neal walks in, doffing his sleep pants and turning on the shower without a word. Peter doesn’t say anything. Not yet. They will have time, just not now.

The room fills with steam and everything becomes just that much more unreal. As he lets Neal pull him into the shower, he realizes he hasn't kissed him this morning. And so he does.

Neal’s like a seal in his arms, all wet and slicked back hair, tasting of hot water and himself and Peter can’t quite get enough, he wonders if he ever will. But nothing else matters at the moment - it’s all about wet skin and hot water and their bodies slippery against each other. Arousal is sudden and fierce and he feels Neal’s own arousal beating against his thigh and he presses him against the wall. There’s no finesse this time, they ride each other, joined at hip and groin and chest and mouth. Neal’s hands are raking furrows into his ass and Peter’s certain he’s going to leave bruises on Neal’s hips. The water is hot, but Neal’s come, as it splashes across his belly is hotter, and his own feels hotter still, burning out of him.

The storm fades, but the hot water doesn’t. Neal washes him. He makes him sit on the bench seat while he washes his hair and his back and in between his toes and Peter’s aroused again - not by the touch, but by this caring.

He tries to do the same for Neal, but he ducks under and pushes Peter out of the shower. He watches him through the glass door that magically doesn’t steam up (and of course Neal’s shower wouldn’t be subject to the laws of physics). Neal’s efficient, he’s washed and out before Peter has a chance to dry himself.

Peter goes to hunt down his clothes and is faced with a dilemma - yesterday’s boxers or he could go commando. He goes commando - the jeans are button-fly and it wouldn’t be the first time.

He fixes himself a cup of espresso, and one for Neal. The machine had been a housewarming present from June, it came direct from Italy, delivered by a small man with a bushy mustache who spoke little English, but showed both of them how to operate it. Peter wonders if coffee in Rome tasted this good.

Neal joins him in the kitchen and wordlessly takes the coffee. He smiles before taking a sip.

Peter tilts his head towards the eggs and bread on the counter. “Wanna go out for breakfast?”

“You buying?”

“Yeah.”

Neal shoves his feet into a pair of docksiders and picks up his keys, Peter’s two steps behind, with a hand at the small of his back.

He’s got no worries about Monday morning.

THEY HAVE BREAKFAST AT A LOCAL DINER, LINGERING OVER BAD COFFEE AND RUNNY EGGS AND BURNT TOAST, but Neal thinks it is the best meal of his life. They talk about work, case load, the trial Peter will have to testify at next week. There is no need to talk about _them_ \- all of the talking is done. They walk back to his building and Peter goes home. El is due back this evening, and Peter tells him he wants to make his pot roast for her. Neal thinks about offering to help, but he doesn’t.

He goes into his apartment, opens the last box he moved from June’s. It’s his art books. They look very nice on the new shelves.

That night, Neal puts on Peter’s tee-shirt – the one he had hidden away.

He sleeps.

  
 _FIN_   



End file.
